


carmine conflicts

by blue_scribbles



Series: red punch [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Panic Attacks, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapist Sam Wilson, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 07:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_scribbles/pseuds/blue_scribbles
Summary: Peter's been in therapy for two weeks and already has to deal with involuntary confrontations. He may think he's coping fine but he's merely in the eye of the storm.





	carmine conflicts

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I should probably be studying I've apparently decided to write this instead. To be fair, it had been requested and may add more depth to the story.  
> The triggerwarnings for this chapter include referenced sexual assault, references to self-harm, swearing, (sort of) graphic violence (and injury), as well as descriptions of dissociation, flashbacks and panic attacks.  
> So if anything sounds like it could reduce your safety, feel free to skip this fic. As always feedback is appreciated and please excuse any grammar or spelling mistakes, for english is not my native language. (So don't hesitate to point such mistakes out)

To find a fitting therapist for a teenage-superhero turned out to be more complicated than both, Tony and Peter had anticipated. It had been obvious that Peter's therapist had to know about his activities as Spiderman for the therapy to actually do it's deed, but the risks that came with such sensitive information, made it hard to find anyone trustworthy. After two months of struggles lined with research on Tony's part and an anxiety-fuelling conversation with May, on Peter's and both came to the conclusion that one way or another, only one person was qualified enough to tend to Peter. And Peter himself was more than nervous to take up the precious time of The Falcon himself, Sam Wilson.

 

For Peter the last two months had been difficult in and of themselves, even though he had found the strength to confess to Mr. Stark, it did not automatically assure him immediate improvement on his situation. Peter should have seen this coming, it had been so blatantly obvious, but in his naivete he had clung desperately to the spark of hope that had simmered in the twilit room of the compound's living room. It had felt liberating at the moment and he had been filled with hope for the first time since months but the aftermath of it all was draining. His conversation didn't impede his symptoms and Peter couldn't help but wonder how therapy would be any different. Still it brought him through the days to know that help was on their way and he didn't have to do it alone.

 

When the day finally came Peter thought that he would maybe prefer going on like this over therapy after all, but now there was no going back and so he sat in Sam's provisional office at the avenger's tower, waiting for Sam while May sat outside. He let his gaze sift over his surroundings, noting how the room was well-lit and equipped with several sitting accommodations, some of them bean bags or arm-chairs, but for the time being, Peter remained in the office chair he had been assigned to, picking at the scabs on his hands- he should really stop with that nervous scratching habit-

 

The first session with Sam was weird to say the least. Peter had been unfamiliar to the procedures until now. So many of the questions took him aback. He had always expected that Sam would cut to the chase right away, since he must have been informed beforehand through Tony, yet his first question was:“Do you want to get better?“

 

Peter had been totally startled. After his first bewilderement, he nodded nevertheless before proceeding with an urgent:“Yes, yes of course.“

 

Sam had hummed at that, while Peter had reverted to prodding at his hand, which didn't go unnoticed, so Sam swiftly handed him some modelling clay, he thankfully accepted to replace his nervous habit with.

 

The session went on like that, Sam didn't bring up the reason why Peter was here and instead asked him about his current situation, soon they had taken over to occupying Peter with legos, so he could speak more freely, which had eased his mind immensly, even though he felt a little bit like a child, but he couldn't really mind. Taking the circumstances into consideration, this was the least of his problems right now. Opening up was hard, especially if the person was basically a stranger, not to mention that he usually would have been someone Peter wanted to impress and be respected by. On the other hand was he thankful for an outside opinion on his problems, many of which he had to deal with alone and some of which would normally have burdened his guadians or friends more than it would have helped him. At the end of the day, Peter was glad. Glad he had began to tackle his issues and glad that he had the support he needed.

 

Not two weeks after his first session the inevitable happened and struck Peter unexpected. He had had two sessions now and his coping skills were still rather limited, but here he was, in the middle of New York, stuck to the spot and his heart pulsing wildly in his throat. With all the people around him, one may have said he must feel secure but never had Peter felt so alone right now. Across the road stood a way too familiar face, the hands stuffed casually into his soft, soft college jacket. The blond hair stuck out in all directions from the wind and maybe, in a far off reality, Peter could have deemed the view attractive, but with the blood rushing in his ears, he couldn't even make a coherent thought. The traffic light ticked in a rhythm that echoed Peter's heartbeat, while he tried to figure out if he should run, or stay, or kill Skip on the spot.

 

Ultimately he decided for the first option and took refuge in the nearest alleyway. The movement had simultaneously shaken off the paralysis, making him gasp and shake, while he leaned against the brick wall and fought for composure. He tried to remember the breathing techniques Sam had taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In for four, out for eight. He instinctively stuck to the carmine stone, focusing on the feeling of gravel under his fingertips, how the loose grains rolled over his fingerprints and the strength of his arm against the steady wall. Reminding himself that he was in control, despite what his mind may tell him, Skip couldn't hurt him anymore. His eyes squeezed shut, he listened for the sounds nearby, the tapping of sneakers and the clacking of high-heels, a dog barked, a child warbled away. Reality slowly gained clarity again, and brought up new questions: Had Skip seen him? Was he still nearby? How long had Peter been here?

 

It all left Peter restless, his skin itching like ants had crawled under it, instinctively he poked at the sore skin on his forearm in an attempt to calm his nerves, even though he new it would be of no use, he was absolutely overwhelmed and had only been lucky to have avoided a flashback, still he wasn't sure if he had actually worked through the shock or had just repressed it.

 

With a subtle tingle in the back of his head, that had peaked up all of a sudden, his head snapped upwards and his attention was brought back to the busy street. He peeked around the corner jittery, sensing danger, flaming hot danger, like red flames, or stop-signs, or sweet punch, sparking memories in the vast extend of wild fires. But Peter was on high alert now, as his head whirled from left to right, on the search for a threat, while all he spotted was, to his personal horror, only the walking figure of Skip at the end of the road, who continuously moved farther away from him. However Peter could feel him as distinctively as if his shadow was stretching itself over his helpless body, like the fire's tounge would lick at the souls it took.

 

Like on autopilot he reached into his backpack, feeling for the familiar fabric of his suit, while the pedestrians jostled him, hurriedly making their way past him. Against any good reasoning Peter followed his sudden impulse to track Skip, in an instant he changed into his suit, hidden from the public eye and was catching up to the boy.

 

All throughout the months Skip had just been that one boy at a Party, an invisible threat hanging over his head, but now he was strolling down the pavement, only a stone's throw away from him. He was moving like any common guy would and Peter could see the heaving of his chest with every breath he took, he watched how he tapped his foot to the music in his earbuds, like Peter would have and the friendly nature with which he treated his fellows. In the bright day-light he looked so much less like the monster Peter had imagined since he had awoken in the med-bay at Avenger's tower, he shrank down to just being human. Peter wouldn't have had a second thought about him if he had ever met him under normal circumstances.

 

As Skip reached a plain house in the suburbs and unlocked the door, standing on a white porch, decorated with plants in pots and some wooden chairs, Peter felt his sense of self slowly slipping alway, but couldn't have cared less at the moment, because Skip had just entered his ordinary house, with an ordinary key and his ordinary behaviours and he was _not_ a carnivore, nor an image of his trauma, but a person, who listened to music and gave back lost money to strangers and who had stopped to tie his shoelaces twice, until he had entered the house.

So what did that make Peter? Just another hook-up? A story told at dinner tables? A cruel joke with his peers? What kind of person could on the one hand be as attentive as to pick up money for strangers but on the other hand drugged underage boys at Partys? It just didn't add up.

 

When Peter was sure, no one would see him he sneaked up to Skip's front door, squinting intensly at the nameplate next to the door bell. It read “Westcott“, “Skip Westcott“ he repeated to himself. He still couldn't name what had been done to him at this Party but now he could name who had done it. Peter slowly doubted the breathing exercise had helped at all.

 

When Peter got home, his head still felt fuzzy, like it had been filled with balls of wool, which's strings had tangled themselves into an unsolvable mess. Peter couldn't tell if he acutally had a physical form, maybe he had left his body at Skips front steps in the suburbs, or before that at the traffic lights, or maybe he had never left the bedroom, maybe he was already dead, because he didn't really feel like he was here at all.

 

Next thing he knew he was sitting in front of his computer, typing Skip's name into the search bar. He didn't know why he was doing that in the first place but he could not stop after the results popped up, revealing his twitter account, either. “Steven Westcott“ it did not sound like the name of a movie villain, or a horror-show creature, it was as ordinary as his house had been.- He thought to himself maybe this was the reason they named hurricanes after people, yet who made the effort to label the ones that only left the sea in disarray?-

 

As he was scrolling through his profile, a picture popped up, it was an auditorium filled to the brim with college students, overlooking the whole crowd, he had even added the university it belonged to and Peter could easily figure out where he went to school and what he was studying.

 

Next was a photo of him and his mother, it read “happy mother's day“ and the boy in the photo was much younger than Skip was now, they looked content with each other, Skips round grinning face beared the innocence of someone his age. What would his mother do if she found out what he'd done?

 

Peter moved on, suddenly stunned by what he stared at, it was a group picture at Flash's Party, one Peter couldn't recall the memory of but was still in, or was he? Because the boy that smiled, slightly out of it, back at him didn't connect to his identity, he could have been a stranger as well, Peter wouldn't have been able to tell. They looked so casual, sitting around the coffee table, some distracted by talking to each other, others winking at the camera, Peter sat on the carpet, one elbow propped on the tabletop, his head leaning on top of it, his other hand held on to a cup resting in his cross legged lap. Flash sat nearest to him, his face lined with forced cheerfullness and his posture stiff, yet to anyone else, who hadn't been there, Flash might have seemed relaxed. In the middle of it all was Skip- Steven Westcott- wearing his trademark college jacket, of which Peter could now say what college it belonged to, he had sunken leisurely into the cushions, looking at peace with himself, while his arms were streched over the backrest, embracing the guys sitting to his left and right. Not thinking about it he clicked at the picture and saved it.

 

The following days he spent hours analysing the image, he tried to remember when it had been taken, tried to provoke his mind to remember but where the memory should have been, Peter just found blankness. Sometimes, when he had watched his face relentlessly, he could have sworn he could see the blood on his face, or the shadows of doom lurking in the background, or maybe he was losing his sanity for good now.

 

When the photograph wouldn't give him anymore answers he went back to Skip's house, he was practically stalking him, but he couldn't have stopped, even if he had wanted to, so he just sat on roofs, or in trees for hours eavesdropping on his conversations, or gazing at him in his room. By now he probably knew more about Skip than he did about MJ. He knew his birthday, where his mother worked, what car he drove, who he met and what music he listened to and with every additional information Steven gained more and more humanity, he became real, while Peter slipped away again from reality. When Skip wasn't the surreal memory that he had constructed for him, then Peter couldn't be the person suffering from his violence. If Skip was anything lesser than a wild-fire, or a hurricane, or the monster under his bed, then Peter couldn't be more than a victim.

 

Maybe this was a form of self-harm too? To repeatedly seek out what had brought only pain, all the while forgetting himself in the bitter-sweet ache. Was this coping, or just holding on, hoping he could reverse what can't be undone? For the first time, Sam's question actually made sense to Peter.

_`Do you want to get better?`_

Did he though? Was he ready to let go of the one consistent thing in his life? Is he able to step out of the eye of the storm without breaking into pieces?

 

Peter should probably have told all that to Sam, it would at least benefit his treatment, but they weren't at the appropriate stage in his therapy yet and Peter already felt weird enough for doing that, _without_ anyone knowing, so he kept to himself. Nevertheless his talks with Sam helped him, he was coping with his panicattacks better than before and they had lessened to some degree, furthermore was he less on edge, enabling him to participate more in class and in social interactions. Peter had seen the raw glee in Ned's eyes the first time he had agreed to hang out with him again, after months of neglect and was grateful he hadn't abandoned him, in spite of him being an absent friend.

 

So there really was no need to mention his slight obession with the Westcott boy, it didn't really harm him anyway, did it? For all he knew, it only calmed him, to be fair in a strange way that made him feel distant, but it got the job done so that was a good thing, right? All in all it was going quite well for Peter, something he wouldn't have guessed, only weeks prior, hence he tried not to think about it too much.

 

The next instance was quite different to the one he had had with Steven. What had begun as a fairly normal school day, had turned out to be rather nightmarish in the course of just a few hours. In retrospect, Peter should have been prepared for such outcomes the second he had awoken, being more agitated than usual.

 

After therapy had started, many of his symptoms had weakened, regardless of that Peter's days still ranged from comparatively mild to absolutely awful but Peter had no real choice either way, even when he didn't feel like he would be able to attend school, he knew of the importance it had for not only him, but May too and he didn't want to disappoint her. One way or the other Peter had to get up nonetheless. Today wasn't any different, albeit him being anxious and moody- He's okay, he'll be okay- he told himself, contrary to the evidence at hand, maybe he would even be able to believe it.

 

The first few lessons were hassle-free, he could keep his restlessness in check for the most part, therefore he was able to follow his teachers' monolouges and got some work done. Later on he would think his optimistic approach might have just been another mistake that only led to a further loss of control, something he could not afford in any way.

 

The last two lessons before the afternoon classes, had been gym class and while the lesson hadn't been worse than usual, Peter's breath caught itself in his throat as Flash approached him, wearing a sorry expression, as it became clear that they were assigned to tidy up the sports hall together, subsequently leaving them both alone with each other. Peter flinched away, as Flash was just three feet away from him, not making a move to back off anytime soon, Peter instead turned around to carry a gym mat back into the storage room. Fash followed suit, creating a tense silence between the two of them, neither being very keen to resolve their issues, while being sweaty and exhausted in a stuffy gym hall.

 

Eventually the last straw that broke the camel's back, had been nothing more than Flash's futile attempt at helping Peter, who was getting increasingly riled up at unlocking the brake on one of the vaulting boxes. Flash had sneaked up at him, carefully bending down next to him, before he reached for Peter's hands on the handle. Flash had barely even touched him, but the contact had still shot sharp electricity up his arm, into his chest and he suddenly felt how his fragile composure crumbled in the flicker of a moment. With a hard shove Peter pushed Flash away from him a few feet, the latter stumbling backwards and flailing with his arms, while he stared at him uncomprehendingly.

 

“Don't fucking touch me!“ He barked at him defensively.

 

“God, get over yourself, Parker.“ Flash answered, while brushing off non-existent dust to work up the courage for his shammed, careless attitude.

 

Peter felt something break inside him, like a damaged safety catch that had been worked thin with the months of pent up emotion. He took an intimidating step forward.

 

“Fuck you! Don't act like _I'm_ overreacting! You know exact-“ Peter broke off, breathless from the emotions choking him, he felt pathetic for stuttering, while he wanted to scare the smug grimace off of Flash's ignorant dial. 

 

He tried again:“exactly I have every right to do so! Do you think I could ever forget what you did?!“ The weight of the words layed heavy in his throat like a lumb, closing off his air-ways entirely, which was more than inconvenient when Peter was doing more barking than biting at the moment with nothing to back it up. He was probably just as scared as Flash was, if the trembling in his body was anything to go by. The situation was tipping dangerously on the verge of escalating with both of them thrust into a position of confrontation, Skip afraid of eventual consequences and Peter's sanity suddenly deciding to go on a holiday trip.

 

“Do you think I give a shit, if you play the victim here?! You should be grateful that I helped you out in the first place.“ Flash spat, feeling cornered.

 

Peter's ears began to ring in a panic-inducing high pitch, deafening him to the world around him. His vision was darkening, as the words took effect pushing him over a brittle boundary. Flash's voice was overlapping with the throaty insult from Skip, both telling him he was ungrateful, because he didn't appreciate being dehumanized under the cover of benevolence.

 

“ _ungreatful tease.“_

 

His initial state of shock was quickly replaced by the only coping mechanism Peter currently had access to, blind anger. His mind short-circuited in an attempt to prevent the flashback that brought back a crippling helplessness with it, by lashing out at the alleged source of danger. He was close to a total black out, as he closed off the distance between them, while his vision was blurring and his body numbing. The first hit struck Flash right across his face, staining the hem of his shirt, as blood spurted from his nose. Having thrown him off balance, Peter took the chance to attempt another blow, catching Flash's jaw.

 

Somewhere in the process Flash must have tumbled over, because now Peter found himself kneeling above him, neither hearing, nor seeing anything else besides the blood and his own pleading. His knuckles hit something solid but the pain didn't come, so he aimed again for the stubborn resistance until he heard bones crack. Again and again was he bruising his knuckles without feeling any of the pain, while his other hand's palm burned, as he pressed Flash's shoulder fiercly into the glossy wooden floor. All around him, the noises blended together into a disorienting buzz, making Peter feel like he had stuck his head into a beehive. He _felt_ himself talking, screaming maybe but couldn't make out the exact words, let alone if Flash answered.

 

And Peter wouldn't have stopped anytime soon if it hadn't been for Coach Wilson to reenter the sports hall and bodily dragging him off of Flash's thrashing body. But Peter still couldn't get back in control, after his violent outburst had been cut off. With the sudden silence Peter had the faint suspicion that his face may be wet with tears, yet everything the rage had left him with, was numbness, his head suddenly empty and his body like lead with exhaustion. He sat paralysed, as Coach Wilson helped Flash up and sent him off to the infirmary before he thrust Peter up at his shoulder. He didn't put up a fight at the rough treatment and just let himself be led through the hallways, still too dissociative to really admister what had just happened, or take notice at Wilson's grumbling.

 

In the end, Peter was dropped off at the principal's office to wait for Flash and their respective parents, or in his case guardians. Normally he should have been up the walls at this point but Peter felt nothing, save for a distant throb in his left hand. He looked down at it, astonished by the scarlet abrasions on his knuckles and fingers, as well as the purple swelling spread over the rest of his hand, if he really had hit Flash like that, he didn't want to know how he must look like. Dizzily he reached up with his other hand to wipe off the dampness on his cheeks, his motions sloppy.

 

Shortly afterwards the other parties joined him, so that they were all asked to enter the office now. Peter only caught snippets of the conversation taking place and didn't say anything for the most part. What did he have to say in his defence anyway? It wasn't as if he could just spill the truth, not to mention that probably nobody would believe him. So he just rode it out, nodding and listenting to the scolding and accepting whatever they decided to punish him with. In any other circumstances Peter would have cared, but he could hardly distinguish between reality and trauma at the moment, so what would it gain him, forcibly aknowledging his surroundings?

 

 

May was exasperated as she stood in the principals office, trying to resolve the trouble her nephew had apparently got in, while this very kid was now slouched into the chair next to her, unresponsive to most of their questions. Not to mention the hand he was cradling in his lap that looked worse with every minute that passed. May tried to stay civil here, even though she was short of exploding with anger at the unresponsible school's staff that instead of tending to her kid too, treated him like a criminal, ignoring the obvious that something was seriously wrong with him right now.

 

While that Eugene kid was oddly cooperative, his parents seemed to be out and about to rise all hell, seemingly unknowing that _their_ child had actually fucked up big time. May wasn't saying Peter's severity of violence was still justifiable but she was strongly believing that he must have had his reasons and she certainly wasn't going to take sexual harrassment lightly, because for all she knew, this guy had played a significant role in the whole incident. So she was sure he had deserved every blow. 

 

 

Peter was suspended for the next three days, or at least that was what he was able to pick up at the end of the discussion. When he had looked over to Flash he seemed to be overeager to appease to his parents, insisting the situation wasn't as consequential as they thought. Apart from that he was white as a sheet, even with the blood off his face, he wasn't looking any better than he had when Peter had first hit him. But who was he to judge, when most of the attack was still a blurr?

 

May had pulled him to her side with one arm slung around his shoulders as they were making their way down the empty halls. He felt himself swaying slightly in her embrace while the adrenaline was slowly loosening it's hold on his mind. He was bracing himself for another scolding, regret and shame already pooling up in his chest but May just whispered thoughtful reassurances to him while she helped him into the car and stroke through his sweaty curls before closing the car door and getting inside herself. Peter felt a lot more relaxed and grounded now that he considered himself back in a safe environment.

 

“We should get that looked at by someone.“ May gestured at his left hand, taking a deep breath.

 

Peter nodded reticent, only now feeling a sharp jab of pain as he tried to flex his fingers. He hissed with a start at the sudden pain that seemingly came out of nowhere and looked over to May helplessly. How could he not have felt that before?

 

“I know honey, it's probably aching but can you do me favour and call Tony and put him on speakerphone, so I can tell him we're coming over?“ soothed his aunt, before handing him her mobile.

 

Peter fumbled at it with his good hand, trying to hold back agitated whimpers, and dialed Mr. Stark's number before holding out the phone for May to speak into.

 

“Stark speaking, who's calling?“ His earthy voice reverberated through the speaker, adding to calming Peter's mind.

 

“Hey Tony, it's May,“ she started.

 

“May! What's happened? Is something up with Peter?“ Came his unsettled response.

 

“Sorry to bother you with this but I think someone should have a look at his hand and maybe he should have a check up with Mr. Wilson, I'll explain it to you when we're there.“ She explained tersely, trying to keep her worry at bay.

 

“No sweat, you know I want to help where I can. I'll see you at the tower then.“ Tony dismissed and they ended the phonecall.

 

In the meantime the pain in his hand had increased, he felt a little bit like a child again, being chauffeured around, while nursing his injury. These days most of the time he resorted to patching himself up, when patrol had roughed him up again, but now he felt himself relegated into his childhood, when uncle Ben had driven him to the hospital, while May had held his wailing form after he had broken his forearm, climbing the neighbours tree. It had hurt horribly, probably more than his hand did now, yet Peter had felt save in his aunts arms and with his uncle behind the wheel, he had known that they would make the pain go away soon.

 

“It hurts,“ he mumbled a bit dazed, not sure what he promised himself out of that statement.

 

“I know, I know, we'll be there in a minute, just hold on for a bit longer, yeah?“ May tried to comfort him.

 

Peter wanted to be good for her, didn't want to worry her unnecessarily, after having caused her so much trouble already, so he sucked it up and kept quiet throughout the rest of the drive.

 

After they had arrived in the med-bay, he sat next to May on the surgery couch, while Doctor Cho worked on his hand. A little bit sedated from the pain killers she had given him, he rested his head on May's shoulder, as she rubbed soothing circles on his back and answered the doctor's questions. Before his hand was put in a splint and cast, they supplementary took an x-ray of it, then dismissed them both, after adding he should come for a check up next week.

 

Tony already waited for them outside the treatment room, ready to lead them further to Peter's next appointment. All the hassle made him feel a bit cornered, not even he could figure out what had just happened at school and yet he should explain it to Sam? But he didn't really have a say in the matter, did he? After all did  _he_ snap without warning at a harmless classmate and apparently had punched the floor in close proximity to his head without registering that he was breaking his own bones- god this whole ordeal was so fucked up- 

 

Sam greeted him at the door to his office, gesturing for him to go inside, following shortly after and leaving Tony and May outside to discuss the situation on their own.

 

The session was very different from the one's before, Sam tried to be subtle about it, but Peter knew he tried to coax him to open up more, this wasn't merely about symptoms anymore, they started to dive deeper into the problem because both knew they had run out of options a while ago. Peter confessed to him purposely looking for Skip and though Sam must have been confounded, he didn't show it. Sam tried to explain to him what was going on with him, as far as he could. The whole process was dragging and draining for both of them but there wasn't really an alternative, taking into consideration how it had played out for Peter up until now, so he tried to pull himself together yet again.

 

At the end of the day, Mr. Stark had invited May and him over to stay at the tower for the night, seeing how darkness had already fallen, as well as the exhaustion that lined everyone's faces. They were all glad to get some rest after the day's flurry and once Peter took the second dose of his pain killers he had practically passed out on the compound's living room couch, snuggled between his aunt and Mr. Stark. He may be still far from okay but for the time being, he felt save again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the first part of this chapter was inspired by two very remarkable slam poems  
> first being "people you may know" by Kevin Kantor (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoyfunmYIpU&t=1s)  
> and second "to live in the body of a survivor" by Blythe Baird (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sf0FcGi_9bM)  
> So if you got some time to spare, definitely check them out.


End file.
